


Five Times Someone Found Out That Chekov Was An Alien And The One Time They Already Knew

by Shira_Lansys



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-21
Updated: 2013-08-21
Packaged: 2017-12-24 04:41:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/935486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shira_Lansys/pseuds/Shira_Lansys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's really what it says on the tin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Someone Found Out That Chekov Was An Alien And The One Time They Already Knew

** 1\. Doctor McCoy **

“Alright, Chekov, hop up on the bed. Before I run the scan, have you had any strange symptoms over the past month that I should know about? Inexplicable bleeding? Aches and pains? Limbs falling off at random?”

Chekov shook his head, his wide eyes gazing up at McCoy earnestly. “No sir.”

McCoy sighed. “That last one was a joke, kid. You should appreciate it more. I don’t make them often.”

“Yes sir.”

Mccoy raised an eyebrow. “Alright, I’m going to turn the scanner on-” His fingers whizzed over the PADD interface and behind Chekov’s head the monitor screen flashed on. “And then we’ll look at your medical history- Holy mother of God!”

“Vhat? Vhat is it?” Chekov asked, his accent becoming slightly more pronounced in his concern. It was true Doctor McCoy wasn’t known for his bedside manner, but that reaction would be worrying coming from _any_ doctor, even him.

“Nurse Chapel, over here please,” he called out to a blonde nurse bustling around behind him. Then he turned back to Chekov. “Your vitals, kid, they’re way out,” Doctor Mccoy said, more calmly but still with a tone of urgency in his voice. “Heartbeat right down, temperature too low, severe depletion of several vitamins, especially amino acids, and you have no lysine in your system at all. Furthermore, you have an excess of magnesium and are severely dehydrated. I’m amazed you’re still conscious. Chapel, I’ll need-”

“Doctor McCoy,” Chekov interrupted. He’d pushed himself up and twisted himself around to see the screen his vitals were displayed on. “I mean no disrespect, sir, but my witals look normal.”

“What are you talking about, Ensign?” Doctor McCoy snapped. He pulled the screen around so the boy could see it better. “Heart rate: thirty beats per minute. Blood pressure: sixty over forty. Your temperature is thirty-three degrees; you’re technically hypothermic.”

“Doctor McCoy, haff you read my medical file?”

“I’ve read the important bits. Your medical history, mostly. Nothing stood out, except for your uncommon lack of childhood illness and a glowing recommendation of health upon entering Starfleet.”

“Did you check my species?”

McCoy frowned. “I didn’t, actually,” he admitted. “It’s not linked to the medical records, goodness knows why, although I can access it if necessary. Is there something I should have seen?”

“I am not human, Doctor.”

Chekov supposed he shouldn’t be quite so resentful when the jaws of both the doctor and Nurse Chapel dropped open, but he couldn’t help the flash of annoyance that shot through him. He’d had seventeen years of surprised reactions upon revealing to people that he was an alien species; he’d hoped that maybe it would be different in Starfleet, on a starship sent out to meet with alien cultures and where almost half the crew were also non-human life-forms. But if this was the reaction of the Chief Medical Officer, perhaps he shouldn’t hold his breath.

Doctor McCoy didn’t respond immediately, his fingers sweeping over his PADD. Behind Chekov’s head, his profile flashed up on the display screen.

The profile picture was the one taken upon his admittance to Starfleet; in it he looked ridiculously young, beaming brightly with pride. He was just fourteen in it; the youngest ever to be admitted to Starfleet Academy, and he felt the flush of embarrassment touch his cheeks at the sight of his rounded face and bright, excited eyes. People on this ship thought he was just a child _now_ ; what must Doctor McCoy and Nurse Chapel think upon looking at that three-year-old photo? He was practically an _infant._

Mentally he made a note to get a new photo taken next time they were back at Starfleet headquarters.

Below his picture was his biographical information. Name: Chekov, Pavel Andreievich. Rank: Ensign. Place of Birth: Russia, Earth.

Species: Cartaran.

Following that was a list of his physical features, and he knew that if McCoy scrolled down further it would show his educational history, marital status, and other irrelevant information.

“And you didn’t think to mention this to me before now?” McCoy demanded.

“I assumed you vould haff been made avare of it,” Chekov said stiffly, not appreciating the reprimand for something that wasn’t his fault. He shouldn’t have to disclose his species to the CMO; the CMO should already know. But he realised his tone was bordering on insubordinate and added a belated “sir” onto the end of it.

McCoy didn’t seem to notice the rudeness in his voice. He ran his hand through his hair absentmindedly. “Sorry, kid,” he said, eyes still scanning the bio page. “You’re right; it’s not your fault. What I want to know is why the hell this information wasn’t put on your medical records, _or_ passed onto me as CMO!”

“The doctor doing my intakes said zat I vas biologically similar enough to a human for it to be irrelewant, sir” Chekov said. “He said it vould be enough zat it was on my general profile. And I belieff Doctor Purri vas unofficially notified vhen I vas assigned.”

McCoy swore under his breath. “Your intake doctor was a moron,” he told Chekov bluntly. “Every species has their species listed on their medical history now, including humans. It was a regulation that came into force after you signed up, but even at the time it was general practice – one the doctor should have been following.”

He seemed to expect some sort of confirmation from Chekov, who nodded. He didn’t need the doctor to explain why the information hadn’t been passed on to McCoy when he was promoted to CMO; when you took over a starship in the middle of a crisis, the small details were often overlooked. It was something that the bridge crew had been discovering over the past two months. Kirk was a good Captain, but he’d missed the vital experience of being a First Officer, as well as the interim period in which the previous Captain should have prepared him for his duties. Considering Admiral Pike couldn’t even walk, let along command a spaceship, that interim period had been severely lacking, and the _Enterprise_ had suffered for it.

But at least Captain Pike had been alive. Chekov could only imagine the chaos that had followed the Nero incident in the other departments. With the previous CMO dead and his best possible replacement a man who was still technically a cadet, Chekov could understand why memorising the various species on board had been low down on McCoy’s list of priorities.

Doctor McCoy sighed again. “Well this check-up is essentially useless,” he informed Chekov grumpily. “I know next-to-nothing about your species. We’re going to have to reschedule so I can have a chance to read up on what I should be expecting from your body.”

“Yessir,” Chekov said dutifully, hopping off the bed. “Vhen do you vant me to come back?”

“Give me a couple of days,” McCoy said. He sounded weary. “Same time.” He raised an eyebrow and gave Chekov and evaluating look. “Is there anything _else_ that I should know, Ensign?” he asked sternly.

“I zink zat is all, doctor,” Chekov said.

McCoy just gave a small ‘hurrumph’ before stalking off. Chekov made to leave but Nurse Chapel stopped him with a gentle hand on his arm. “Don’t worry about Doctor McCoy,” she told him with a kind smile. “He’s always like that. He’s just annoyed at the Starfleet bureaucracy. But he’ll read up on your species, get your records sorted out, and then you two can work on it from there.”

“Vhat do you mean?” Chekov asked.

“Oh you know, Nurse Chapel said. “Discuss things like you’re dietary requirements, requirements for away missions, that sort of thing.”

“I do not haff any special requirements,” Chekov said. But Nurse Chapel just patted his arm before moving on.

It was supposed to reassure him, Chekov suspected, that they were taking his species so seriously. Logically, it made sense; different species had different biological needs, and if these weren’t acknowledged and addressed then it could put the member of the species in question in danger.

But he didn’t want a big deal made out of this. He just wanted to be able to go about his duties like anyone else on the starship, without anyone fussing about his age or his race.

 _‘This is why I didn’t tell anyone,’_ Chekov thought miserably to himself.

* * *

**2\. Sulu**

At least, Chekov thought, he got to tell Sulu of his own volition.

He was lying on the floor of Sulu’s room, a place where he spent a surprisingly large amount of time, if you considered the amount of time most people spent there. His fingers flew over his PADD as he typed frantically, barely pausing to think from one sentence to the next. Sulu, who was on his bed cleaning his antique guns, would send him intrigued looks every now and again. He was curious as to what Chekov was so engrossed in, but he knew from experience that if he asked what it was Chekov would launch into an enthusiastic description of something physics, mathematics or engineering related that would leave Sulu bemused and no more informed than before he had asked.

The silence between the two friends was comfortable and reassuring. When Chekov had first started appearing in his room, Sulu had found the lack of conversation almost uncomfortable. Certainly, when they spent time together in other places on the ship, they were never _silent_ , whether it was their casual conversation in the lunchroom, stilted communication in the rec rooms, or friendly banter on the bridge. But over time he’d come to realise that they didn’t always need to talk; Chekov seemed to enjoy the comfort of Sulu’s presence, and as their friendship had deepened Sulu had come to like it too. They didn’t have to be talking constantly; sometimes silence was a communication all of its own.

But just because they didn’t need to talk didn’t mean neither of them did. “I do have a desk, you know,” Sulu said, amused, as he watched his friend work. “Wouldn’t that be more comfortable?”

“Not really,” Chekov replied. “I like it like zis.I am comfortable as I am.”

“ _How?_ ” Sulu said, incredulously. “That _cannot_ be good for your back.”

Chekov shrugged awkwardly. “I am used to it,” he said. “Vhen I vas growing up in Russia ve did not haff much money, and our house vas wery small. I had no desk, only the kitchen table, and someone else vas usually using it. I did all my study like zis, in the middle of our lounge, vith my siblings playing around me.”

Sulu knew Chekov came from quite a large family, although he wasn’t sure how many brothers and sisters he actually had. “Sounds chaotic,” he commented.

“It vas,” Chekov said with a fond smile. “Wery much so. But I knew no different. It is vhy I like to study in odd places, and vith noisy people around me.”

“I’m not noisy!” Sulu protested.

“Of course not, Hikaru,” Chekov said with a deceptively straight face. “You clean those guns wery quietly, and I cannot hear your breathing at all.”

Sulu chuckled, and Chekov couldn’t resist a smile as he added, “And of course I can’t tell vhen you’re asleep from your deafening snores, ewen through our connecting bathroom.”

“Hey!” Sulu protested. “I don’t snore! I know I don’t. I slept in my cousin’s room for nine months when I was sixteen; he would have told me if I did.”

“Perhaps he vas just polite,” Chekov suggested, which made Sulu laugh again.

“Do you miss them?” he asked, after a while. “Your family? You mention them all the time, but you never really say anything about them. I don’t even know how many siblings you _have_.”

“Nine,” Chekov said. “Four are older zan me, and fife are younger.”

Sulu gave a low whistle. “Wow,” he said. “That’s one large family.”

“Yeah,” Chekov said. Then he added, “And I do miss zem. Wery much. Ve vere wery close, which is probably vhy I mention zem all ze time.”

His tone made Sulu glance sideways at Chekov. Most of the time Sulu forgot that his friend was only seventeen years old – normally too young even to join Starfleet academy, let alone be working on a starship with limited contact to the outside world. But when he did remember – like now – it always felt like someone had punched him, because Chekov looked so innocent or vulnerable and it made Sulu want to wrap him in a hundred blankets and tuck him away somewhere safe where nothing bad would ever happen to him.

He knew it wasn’t a normal reaction to have, and for that reason he chose not to examine the feeling further further.

But it did break his heart a little, seeing Chekov look and sound so sad. “Tell me about them,” he said softly.

And Chekov did. The words came spilling out like he’d been holding them back, his tales jumbled in his eagerness. Sulu noticed he spoke about his younger siblings fondly, and his older siblings with admiration, especially his sister Darya, who had been attending university when Chekov was eleven and had taken him with her. “She was ze reason I vent to uniwersity, and the reason I vent so young,” he told Sulu. “Because I saw vhat she was doing, and I understood it. And ze zings I didn’t understand, she explained to me.”

“At _eleven_ ,” Sulu said, trying to keep the incredulity from his voice. He regarded his friend’s intelligence in much the same way he regarded his age. He knew Chekov was a genius, but most of the time it remained in the back of his mind. It wasn’t until Chekov said things like that, or did things that were almost impossible, that Sulu realised there probably wasn’t anyone smarter than him aboard the entire ship.

Chekov blushed. “She helped me a lot,” he said. “Alzough sometimes- sometimes I helped her.”

He said it so hesitantly, like he was sharing a great secret, that Sulu had to laugh. Chekov didn’t have an ego, but he knew what his abilities were. He also knew that people didn’t like to be reminded how much smarter he was than them, and so he never bragged about his accomplishments in anyway, only stated them as they were, or downplayed them.

“You ground me, Pavel,” Sulu told him fondly. “Whenever I think I’m particularly clever, or I’m overly proud of making lieutenant straight out of the Academy, I look at you and am humbled.”

Chekov flushed. “But you are brilliant, Hikaru!” he protested, sitting up so that he could look at Sulu better. “You’re an amazing pilot! And you know all zese _zings,_ like old guns and plants and martial arts and fencing and how to cook actual food, and vhy ze people in ze Federation distrust Andorians and-”

“Alright, Pavel, I don’t need the whole list,” Sulu laughed.

Chekov flushed again. “Sorry,” he said. “But you know about lots of different zings. All I know is science. In my free time I follow Meester Scott around engineering. Right now I’m vriting a paper about ze possibility of programming teleport dewices to beam up people trawelling at high speeds, like I did viz you and Keptin Kirk. But you know somezing about eweryzing, and haff lots of interests zat you’re good at.”

It was a few moments after Chekov finished speaking that Sulu realised he was staring at Chekov with a slightly surprised, slightly amazed look. He’d had no idea Chekov thought quite so highly of him. “Thanks,” he said, a little awkwardly, not really knowing what to add to that flattering speech. Chekov, as though just realising that perhaps he’d been a little over-enthusiastic in his praise, flushed.

“Besides,” he said hurriedly. “You shouldn’t compare yourself to me. I haff… adwantages.”

There was something hesitant in his tone that made Sulu look up. “What do you mean, advantages?” he asked curiously. He knew Chekov’s mother was a scientist, and clearly he’d learnt off his older sister, but they hardly explained how he was capable of understanding university-level science at the age of eleven.

“Vell…” Chekov said. His PADD was lying on the floor in front of him and he pushed at it lightly with his toes, almost as though he was nervous. Sulu realised that he’d hardly ever witnessed Chekov as hesitant before. The young Russian was always so enthusiastic about… well, everything.

“What is it, Pavel?” Sulu asked, concerned by the sudden change in his behaviour.

“I am… I am not exactly human, Hikaru,” Chekov said, not looking at his friend as though afraid to see his reaction.

“Is that a joke?” Sulu could tell by his tone, however, that it wasn’t.

“Not human. Exactly. Vell, at all, really. I am humanoid, obwiously, and I vas born on Earth. But my parents veren’t, and I am somewhat biologically different from you, alzough still compatible in most vays, and outvardly my differences are almost unrecognisable except in extreme circumstances or if someone is looking for zem in particular…” He realised he was babbling and forced himself to stop. However, he still didn’t look at his best friend.

“So what are you then? If you’re not human?” Sulu asked. His thoughts were whirring in his head, in disbelief and surprise. He’d known Chekov since his second year in the academy; surely he’d have known if the other boy was a _different fucking species_. But Chekov has said his differences were almost unrecognisable…

“Cartaran,” he said. “Our species’ home planet is Pentera in ze Draygo system. It is a class M planet; wery similar to Earth. It made first contact ower 200 years ago, but has not been accepted into ze Federation, alzough the society is slowly ewolwing to meet ze Federation’s requirements. My parents left as refugees, and came to Earth a few years before my oldest sister vas born.”

“Pavel, why didn’t you say anything?” he asked. “I’m not xenophobic – I wouldn’t care if you were orange and had thirteen tentacles.” Then, noticing that Pavel was still staring fixedly to his left, he asked, “Why won’t you look at me?”

“At first I did not tell you because I did not vant to,” Chekov said. “And zen I did not tell you because ze vindow of opportunity had passed, and it would haff been obvious I vas keeping it from you. I did not vant you to be angry vith me, or zink differently of me.”

Sulu pushed himself off the bed and slid to the floor beside Chekov, directly in his line of vision. “Well I’m not angry,” he said slowly. “Just a little surprised. And it’s only because I can’t believe I’ve known you for over two years and didn’t even know your _species_. It seems like sort of basic information. It’s not because I think less of you for it.”

“I identify as human, Hikaru,” Chekov said, meeting his eyes for the first time. His chin was tilted defiantly, as though daring Sulu to say that he couldn’t. “I am not proud of my biological species. I am an Earthling. I vas born on Earth. I vas raised with your culture. The only time I left the planet prior to joining Starfleet vas vhen I was fife and my family trawelled to a human colony on Earth’s moon. I speak two of your languages and am outvardly human in appearance. Russia is my _home-_ ”

“Pavel, Pavel,” Sulu said, interrupting his friend. “I don’t have any doubts you’re human at heart, even if you’re not biologically so. I don’t have any problems with you saying that you are, at all.” Then a thought struck him. “That was quite a list of reasons,” he said. “It sounds like you’ve thought about it a lot.” And prepared a rebuttal for someone who disagreed with his right to identify as his chosen species, he thought but didn’t say. Not to mention his assumption that Sulu would need convincing of his humanness. “Have you met many people who’ve argued with you identifying as human?”

Chekov didn’t say anything for a moment, before the fierce determination his pose displayed seeped from his body as he slumped forwards. “Yes,” he murmured, looking at the floor again. “Lots. Almost eweryone who’s ewer known.” He paused, but Sulu sensed that he had more to say; that he shouldn’t interrupt. “Vhen I vas younger, ze other kids vould tease me for it. Zey said zat vas ze reason I vas so smart, because I vas a freak. Because I vasn’t human. And ewen vhen I got older and made friends who didn’t hate me for being smarter and younger zan zey vere…” he trailed off before starting again. “People at ze uniwersity vere much nicer, ewen if they treated me as a leettle kid. But zey knew I vasn’t human, and zey said I should say I vas. Zey said I should say I am an alien. But I am no different from zem! I am ze same as zem in all ze vays zat matter.”

Chekov seemed genuinely upset by this, even just in the retelling of his story. And Sulu could see why. Often he’d wondered how Chekov had coped at university where he was so much younger than his peers. He’d witnessed it at Star Fleet when Chekov had only been three years younger than most of the first year cadets; anyone passing generally assumed that he was visiting his older brother or sister who was attending the Academy. People looked at him with disbelief and resentment when they realised he was a cadet himself, and if he wasn’t treated as a child who couldn’t possibly understand basic concepts, he was regarded as a genius and ostracised for it.

Sulu had been friends with him during his time there; he’d seen the way most people interacted with him, even after they got to know him. Surprise at his age quickly turned to envy of his intelligence; the other murmured that he was a show-off  behind his back, that he was just a _kid_ , that he was constantly seeking the lecturer’s attention whenever he answered a question right. It didn’t matter that whether or not lecturer had asked him specifically, or whether they’d stood silently at the front of the room as a few seconds of silence stretched into minutes, making it clear that they were not moving on with the topic until someone had at least attempted to answer the question. When Chekov got them right, people said he was a teacher’s pet and a show-off. When he got them wrong, they murmured that he was too young for the Academy and not smart enough to be in the class. It didn’t matter that most of the mutterers didn’t know the answer either, or that the opportunity for them to say that he wasn’t smart enough was a rare one.

Not everyone had been like that, of course, but enough of them had been. Enough for Chekov to notice. Enough for it to seem like the whole world was against him. Enough for Sulu to have privately and discretely to have got in several fights where he employed full use of his martial arts knowledge with few regrets.

 _If that’s what it was like at the Academy_ , he thought, _what was it like at the university, where he was two years younger and everyone knew he was of an alien race?_ Earth was considered home for individuals of many alien species, but they still weren’t common. Starfleet had a larger number of aliens in its educational institutions largely because of its intergalactic nature; most universities were still much under-represented in alien life-forms.

“Yeah, you are,” Sulu said gently. “You are the same. The way they treated you- that’s not your fault for being Cartaran. That’s their fault for being xenophobic. Even the ones who said they didn’t care but then told you not to call yourself human… that’s just a different form of xenophobia. They still didn’t accept you as the same as them, and treated you differently.”

Chekov let out a shaky breath, and Sulu continued. “But Pavel… you had to realise it would be different at the academy. Starfleet is an institution whose prime function is to interact with different species. Tonnes of the cadets are non-human…if any place was going to accept you for who you were it would be there.” And maybe people would have cared less about his age, he thought privately, if there’s been something they could blame his genius on.

“Zat is a big if, Hikaru,” Chekov said with a small smile. “And hiding it vas not wery hard. It seemed easier to not take ze risk.”

“Why are you telling me now?” Sulu asked. “I mean, don’t get me wrong; I’m glad you told me. But why all of a sudden?”

Chekov gave a small smile. “It seemed like somezing you should know,” he said. “And now Doctor McCoy knows, it might haff came out anyvay…”

“McCoy knows?” Sulu asked, a little insulted that someone so removed from Chekov should find out before him.

“He did my biannual examination,” Chekov explained. “My biology is a leetle different to yours. He read my witals and told me I should not be conscious.”

Sulu smiled. He’d had experience with the gruff doctor; he could imagine it. “So how different is your biology exactly?” he asked. “You _don’t_ have tentacles, do you? Because I know I said I’d be fine with it, but if you’ve been hiding that for two years I think I’m allowed to find that a little weird.”

Chekov laughed. “No, no tentacles,” he said. “Or scales or pointed ears. Pentera is a leetle different from Earth – colder, for one. My body temperature is lower zan yours; the temperature control on zis ship means I feel wery hot a lot of ze time. I need less witamins, I haff a couple of internal organs you do not-”

“Whoa, whoa,” Sulu said. “That seems like an important fact. Like what?”

Chekov shrugged, but there was a small smile on his face. “Nothing major. Small ones.” He hesitated. “I haff two kidneys and a larger liwer. Also my heart is about here.” He pointed to the top of his abdomen. “And I haff a different organ for taking in nitrogen – like another lung. The Cartaronian word for it is ‘tiernla’. To make room for zis my stomach and intestines are smaller and I haff no appendix.”

“Nothing major at all,” Sulu said, his tone sarcastic. “Just pretty much every organ in your body is different.

“Not ewery organ,” Chekov said with a straight face. “My gall bladder is ze same. But I do have an extra one. It is slightly different to my first one.”

“An extra gall bladder,” Sulu repeated. “Anything else? Any antennae? Maybe an eye you’ve been hiding on your upper thigh? A tail perhaps?”

Chekov grinned. “I haff alvays vanted a tail,” he said. Then, more seriously, he added, “But outvardly I am ze same as you.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed,” Sulu said dryly. “It’s how you managed to go two years without mentioning you’re a different race.” He hoped he wasn’t making too big of a deal out of the fact that Chekov wasn’t human, but it was a lot for him to take in. “So have you ever been to… to that planet you said that I can’t remember?”

“No,” Chekov replied. “Like I said before, ze only place I ever vent to before Starfleet vas ze moon. I haff no desire to go to Pentera.” He hesitated again. “I do not zink I can go zere, ewen if I vanted to.”

“Why not?” Sulu asked.

“Zere is a reason Pentera is not part of ze Federation,” Chekov said. “Zere are many in fact. Ze first is zat zere are two intelligent life-forms on Pentera; ze Cartarans and zose zat ze Cartarans call “Ferotiae”. It loosely translates to meaning “scum of ze dirt”.” He pronounced ‘Ferotaie’ as fear-rot-ee-ae, but with a guttural sound Hikaru doubted he could reproduce.

“That doesn’t sound like a valid reason,” Hikaru commented.

“That is not it,” Chekov said. He paused for a second and added, “There is actually another intelligent life-form, but zey ewolwed in Pentera’s wolcanos and ze climate zey are accustomed to keeps zem from contact with ze other two species, so zey are irrelewant to zis story.

“Ze Cartarans and the Ferotiae ewolwed in different hemispheres,” Chekov continued, “with an unusual natural phenomenon on ze equator. It was known as ze Ice Crewasse, and it was a band that stretched along ze entire equator. It vas a moving riwer of ice, melting and refreezing constantly. It vas many kilometres in diameter, and many primitiff explorers died in zeir attempts to cross it. Ze riwer vas not smooth but vas a constantly-changing mass of caves and cracking ice. Some did succeed ewentually, so it vas known zat zere was a vorld on ze other side, but it vas not possible for a long time for ze Cartaran ciwilisation to stretch across the crewasse.

“Ewentually, modern technology allowed a crossing, a large crossing. A mass of settlers were transported to ze other side vhere they set up towns and later cities – zey were like colonies, but zere are no nations in Cartaronian history, only willage groups that operated as the ancient Greek equiwalent of nation states.

“It did not take long for the Cartarans to discover that there vas another species living across the ice crewasse, a species they considered to be inferior. They could haff treated with them – ze Cartarans were an egalitarian society in many vays, almost democratic in nature, vith societal diwisions that lacked the expected inequality. But they did not. They warred with them, defeated them, subjugated them, and enslaffed them. Of the entire race, not one remained free. Effen today, zere is no such zing as a free Ferotiae.”

“But you said you were a Cartaran,” Sulu remembered with a frown. “Not Ferotiae.” He made an attempt at saying the name, but he didn’t miss the way the corners of Chekov’s mouth twitched up at his pronunciation.

“I am. Zat is ze reason vhy zey are not part of ze Federation, but not ze reason vhy I cannot go back. My parents vere both Cartaronian. But ze zing you must understand about Cartaronians is zat zeir society is completely different to zose of Earth. Even by intergalactic standards it is unusual. Ze most important difference is race.”

He paused here, in what appeared to be an attempt to collect his thoughts. “Physically,” he began, “ze racial differences appear a lot like Earth’s. Zey are small differences, like jaw-shape and eye-shape and build and height, although ve have no difference in melatonin levels as our climate is wery constant. But genetically, it is more like ze difference between breeds of dogs. A Chihuahua, for example, is wery different from a Great Dane. Zey _can_ breed, but zey haffen’t; zey are genetically bred to be biologically different from each other.

“In Cartaronian society, ze ‘breeds’ are based on occupation. Zere is no status afforded to any ‘breed’ as the society is almost communist in nature, but zey must not intermix – marry or have children vith – someone from a different segment. Varrior must marry varrior; scholar must marry scholar; farmer must marry farmer. Ze label for ze segments changed through history because occupations do not remain the same, but ze general principle vas maintained. Interbreeding vas forbidden; ze punishment vas death.

“To awoid interbreeding in ze early years of ze ciwilisation, often young people vould trawel to a different willage to live. Some willages would only haff three or four youth from ze same segment, and often zey vere related. So zey moved to anozer willage and neffer returned. As ze population grew zis became unnecessary, but-” Chekov shrugged. “It vas tradition. It vas vhat vas done. And zat is how my parents met.”

“What were they?” Sulu asked. “I mean, what were their occupations?”

“My fazar vas a varrior,” Chekov answered. “Bred to be strong and quick, alzough modern technology meant he did his fighting vith guns instead of spears. And my mother vas a scientist – originally scientists vere scholars, but as society became more knowledge-based, obwious diwisions vere made between people who studied sciences and people who studied… say, history. Two hundred years before she could have married a scribe, but zere vas no vay she could haff married my fazar, in any lifetime.

“Zey met in a cave in ze middle of a snowstorm. It vas a designated storm-point on an official route, so it vasn’t unusual for more zan one person to be zere. But it vas just ze two of zem for zree days, and by ze end of it zey’d fallen in luff.”

“What did they do?” Sulu asked.

“Zey moved to a new city togezer, alzough zey pretended zey barely knew each uzzer. Zey could not pretend to be anyzing uzzer zan vhat zey vere, zough; zey didn’t haff ze training for a start, and ze markers of zeir race vere obwious upon close inspection. Earth is so waried in its features; you haff different noses, different jaws, different bones, different eyes, different hair, different skin, different everything, but it is all so mixed up. Two blonde people can haff a child vith black hair!” he laughed as though this were ridiculous. “But in Cartaronian society, zis neffer happened. Zey obwiously belonged to different groups. It vould haff been like you trying to claim you didn’t haff any Asian ancestors.

“But zey didn’t give up. For many years, Cartarans had been capable of space traffel, and my parents signed aboard ze same spaceship. Zey traffelled to Zerus, a nearby multi-species planet. And vhen ze ship vent to leef again… zey simply didn’t show up for boarding.

“But zey had nothing, and Zerus vas far too varm for zem, as zey had ewolwed for icy temperatures. So zey applied to ze Federation as refugees. Ze Federation allowed it on the grounds zat zey’d be executed if zey vere sent home, and by ze following year zey vere on Earth.”

“Wow,” Sulu said, after it was clear that that was the end of the story. “That’s… quite a tale. But how does that prevent you from returning?”

“I am a half-breed,” Chekov said matter-of-factly. “How do you zink Cartaran’s kept such distinctiff class lines for so many zousands of years? Half-breeds are sentenced to death.”

“ _What_?” Sulu exclaimed. “Because your parents had two different _jobs_?! That’s ridiculous!”

Chekov smiled at his outrage. “It is,” he agreed. “Alzough not so different from Earth’s history.”

“Not so much,” Sulu admitted. “But the keyword there is history. Surely with space travel and alien species and… you know, _progress_ , they can see that racial divisions are ridiculous.”

“Zey haff made small steps tovords it,” Chekov said. “Slaffs must be treated humanely now, and zere haff been moffments to free zem in recent years. But interbreeding is still not allowed, and I zink it vill take many more years for zat to change.”

“I can’t believe you never told me all this,” Sulu said.

Chekov shrugged. “It vas not somezing I vanted known.”

Sulu couldn’t blame him; could the kid be any more of an outcast? Child genius, alien species, and sentenced to death on his planet of origin from the moment of his birth for something he couldn’t help. “So when you said you had an advantage, you meant the millennia of selective breeding for your scientific mind?”

“Yes,” Chekov said. “It is also vhy I am not a bad athlete.”

“I’ll say,” Sulu agreed. “Your superhuman marathon times make sense now. And I thought you picked up some of those hand-to-hand moves really quickly.”

“My fazar gaff me more military training zan I vould haff received as a science cadet at ze academy,” Chekov admitted. “After ze first veek zey admitted ze classes vere unnecessary and allowed me to drop all courses in zat segment. It is part of ze reason vhy I managed to get through ze academy in two and a half years. I inherited my physical skills from my fazar and my scientific mind from my mother.”

Sulu looked at him appraisingly. “You know,” he said slowly, “even after the Eugenics Wars, there are still people out there who advocate for selective breeding. Some of them would kill to get their hands on you. You’re living proof that it works.”

Chekov shrugged uncomfortably. “Zen my parents vould just disprove zem by showing my oldest brother. His heart is in ze right place and I luff him dearly, but he’s as thick as a whale omlete.”

That surprised a laugh out of Sulu. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or anything.”

“I know,” Chekov said. “It’s just zat it’s more about luck than anyzing else. I am ze vay I am by chance, and because I haff ze need to learn eweryzing I can. And I am not as freakishly smart as people zink I am, you know. Cartarans are similar to humans, yes, but ve reach our maturity age slightly younger. I legally became an adult at sixteen, you know, not eighteen, and my parents say zat vhile I’m still adwanced for a Cartaran, I am less adwanced in zeir terms zan I am in human ones.”

“That doesn’t make you any less smart,” Sulu said with a smile. “It just means you’re not the child genius that you seem to be.”

“Oh, I’m a child genius,” Chekov informed him earnestly. “Just not as much of one as eweryone zinks.”

* * *

**3\. Scotty**

He was getting more comfortable with the idea of people knowing about his species. After he told Sulu – who’d taken it much better than he could have hoped, with minimal but relevant questions and no noticeable change in his attitude towards Chekov – he’d had his checkup with Doctor McCoy. It had been a week later than expected, because the Captain had led another landing party again, and things went typically wrong as they usually did when he personally led the away team. The sudden intake of casualties had set the doctor back quite a way, and he’d messaged an apology to Chekov with a request that they reschedule until after he’d – as he’d put in the short and informal message -  “cleaned up the Captain’s damned mess again”.

Like his conversation with Sulu, the check-up also went better than expected. Doctor McCoy’s manner was rough and informal at times, but he was a professional above all else and seemed to know what his patients needed (beyond technical medical care) when they didn’t even know it themselves. It was why he was so liked by everyone aboard the ship; he might be gruff and more likely to scold you for hurting yourself than reassure you that you weren’t going to die, but Chekov had realised this _was_ his way of telling you that you weren’t going to die. If he didn’t tell you off, _that’s_ when you started to worry. 

So when Chekov had sat down in his office (already ill at ease, because weren’t check-ups normally done in the general wing?) and Doctor McCoy growled at him “Stop looking like a coiled spring”, Chekov did, in fact, relax. A little.

“I thought we’d do this check-up in here,” McCoy said, “because you seemed uncomfortable the other day, out there with the nurses and other patients around. And stress messes with your levels and makes my job even harder than you’re already making it.”

He phrased it like it was Chekov’s fault his vitals were different, as though he was scolding the young Russian for it, but Chekov knew better. He also knew that his levels weren’t the reason why Doctor McCoy was doing this in his office.

“It’s more practical to do it on the beds,” McCoy told him, pulling out a tricorder. “But there’s nothing they can do that I can’t measure with this.” He waved it over Chekov’s body, scanning him. “Now I asked you last time, but I’ll ask you again. Any strange symptoms?”

“No sir.”

Doctor McCoy raised a single eyebrow in a way that was reminiscent of Spock (Chekov suspected he’d be less than happy to hear that, however). “Really?” he drawled. “You’re not keeping anything from me? Like maybe you’re a different species than the one I believed you to be?”

“No sir,” Chekov said. And because the doctor had obviously not been serious he added, “Not zis time, sir.”

“Hmph,” was the Doctor’s response.

Chekov had a thought. “Alzough I am vhat Cartarans consider to be half-caste, if zat is somezing you need to know.”

“I’m aware of that, ensign,” McCoy said, before ceasing his scanning and returning to his seat on the opposite side of the desk. “I dug a little bit deeper through your history – including that of your parents, medical and otherwise.” He hesitated. “It was nothing I wasn’t authorised to access, but some of it seemed a little personal nonetheless. I hope it makes you more comfortable to know that doctor-patient confidentiality does apply to that, as well as to anything about your species that you tell me.”

“Zank you, Doctor.”

“Don’t thank me, kid, it’s my job. Now, was I wrong about you being uncomfortable with this information being made public?”

Chekov shifted in his seat. “It is not somezing I generally tell people about, Doctor, for personal reasons.”

“I thought so. It is on your bio, which practically anyone can access unfortunately, and there’s not a damned thing I can do to change that. But if it helps, hardly anyone you have to deal with personally _will_ check it because for the most part it’s useless unless information.”

“I am… I am not hiding it, doctor,” Chekov said. “Well, not really. Not anymore. It just… does not really come up. People do not need to know.”

“Well that won’t always be the case, ensign. But I can assure you that they won’t hear it from my lips. Now, about your vitals… your niacin levels are lower than they should be, even for your species. You’ll need to rectify that by…”

And the rest of the conversation had been an uncomfortable – but quick and expected – discussion about better dietary habits and getting updated on some vaccines that were about to become relevant as they headed towards a new galaxy. He left the doctor’s office feeling strangely light. He wondered whether it was because he’d been worried about whether doctor-patient confidentiality did apply, or because his fears that Doctor McCoy would treat him differently hadn’t been realised.

He hadn’t dwelt on it much, although in the back of his mind was the nagging thought that perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if the bridge crew, at least, knew about his secret.

The situation had remained thus until their first night of shore leave on an advanced, Federation planet – the first time their shore leave involved going to a bar. Sulu had a date with a girl from security, and Chekov had been resigned to drinking alone until he spotted a cheerful Scotsman chatting happily with a blue-skinned man at the bar. He’d been hesitant about approaching as the pair seemed deep in conversation, but as he watched the other man patted Scotty roughly on the back (so roughly, in fact, that Scotty would have flown out of his seat had the bar not been right in front of him), smiled at him and wandered off.

Scotty was still wincing as Chekov slipped into the seat next to him. “Laddy!” he exclaimed good-naturedly, the slight slur in his voice revealing that the glass in front of him was not his first scotch. “Good to see you here! Ach, I’ve just been chatting with that lovely Gradian… Garodian… Granary… fellow. Good conversationalist, but he doon’t know his own strength!”

Chekov, who knew that the man’s species had actually been Granarian, smiled back. “Vhat vere you talking about?” he asked. He had to yell a little as there was a live band on the other side of the room and their playing was quite loud.

“Ooch, this and that,” Scotty said. “Engines mostly. A little bit about clouds.”

“I am impressed zat you can still talk about engines vhile you are drunk,” Chekov informed him, waving over the bartender.

“I’m noot that drunk,” Scotty said. “This is only me fourth.”

Chekov laughed just as the bartender reached them. “What can I get you?” he asked.

“I’ll haff a wodka and lemon, please,” Chekov said.

“Age and species?”

The band picked this time to end their song, and for a few seconds the applause was deafening. But when it died down, the bar seemed eerily silent compared a few moments before. Whatever he said now, Scotty would hear – and possibly remember – quite clearly.

He made a split-second decision. “Sewenteen,” he said. “My species is Cartaran.”

The bartender didn’t even blink. “Identification,” he said, in a droning voice.

Chekov pulled out his Starfleet ID, which was legal identification on all Federation planets. It also gave his date of birth and species. He handed it to the man, who crossed to the till computer to confirm its authenticity and that Cartaronians _could_ drink when they were seventeen years old.

A quick glance to his left told Chekov that Scotty was looking at him with raised eyebrows. Unfortunately, he also looked a little less inebriated than he had been a few moments ago. “Are you really not human, lad?” Scotty asked, the surprise in his voice evident. “Or are you just sayin’ that to get the booze?”

It would be so easy, Chekov thought, to say it was a lie. To give him a cheeky wink and say in overdramatic tones that bordered on sarcastic, “Yeah, I’m _really_ an alien. Didn’t you know?”

But Scotty was his friend. Other than Sulu, he was probably his closest friend on the Enterprise. And Chekov didn’t have any friends that weren’t on the Enterprise.

He liked and respected Scotty. In fact, that was almost an understatement; when he’d told Sulu he spent most of his free time trailing Scotty around, he hadn’t been lying. At first, it was mostly because Scotty was the best person (except perhaps for Mr Spock) to discuss physics with. Scotty had been very interested to hear how Chekov had managed to lock onto Kirk and Sulu faster than the computers, and Chekov had been equally interested to hear about the equation that had allowed Scotty to beam aboard the enterprise while she was travelling at warp.

He’d gone back because he was always interested in learning science, and there was a lot of science involved in engineering department that he didn’t yet know. But over time, he’d come to like this knowledgeable, affectionate man, and admire him for more than just his keen mind.

He imagined what it would be like if he said that he was human now, only for Scotty to find out later on that he wasn’t. He’d feel guilty. Scotty would think he didn’t trust him, and had lied to him (both, Chekov supposed, would be true).

And Chekov realised that he didn’t _want_ to lie to Scotty. He sort of _wanted_ this man to know. Scotty, of all people, would not judge Chekov for his species. Why was he hiding it from him?

“No,” he said quietly. “I am really not.”

Which answered both of Scotty’s questions.

“Ach, I wouldn’t hae guessed,” Scotty said, taking another swig of his scotch. “You’re not going to start claiming things were invented in Cataron now, or wherever it is you come from? Because I’m telling you, Scotch was invented in Scotland, by a fine Scottish bloke with red hair and kilt. Russia doesn’t even feature in the equation.”

His response made Chekov smile. “If you say so, Meester Scott,” he said, as the bartender handed back his ID and reached for a glass. “If you say so.”

* * *

 

When Chekov woke up the next morning, it was to a hideous hangover that would have made a Vulcan weep. He barely managed to stumble into the bathroom of the small hotel room he was staying in before the last of the previous night’s alcohol made it out of his system and into the toilet. It did make him feel slightly better, however, and with relief he slipped off his sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower.

He’d missed the refreshing feel of actual water showers while on the enterprise, and not even a hangover was going to stop him from enjoying this one. Sonic showers might keep him clean, but nothing could beat the feel of almost-too-high water-pressure on his back or the sensation of hot water cascading down his skin. Even his headache seemed to ease slightly as the steam flooded the bathroom and his shivering eased as the tenseness in his muscles dissipated.

When he stepped back into the room, he noticed several things that he’d missed before his hurried dash to the toilet. The first was his best friend was fully clothed, snoring, and sprawled out across both their beds, which were for some reason in the middle of the room and also upside down (he had a nagging feeling that he should remember why that was, and also why the bedside cabinets were on top of the wardrobe). The second was that the bedside cabinets were on top of the wardrobe.

“I must haff had vay too much to drink last night,” he muttered to himself. “Lights, 10 per cent.” It made the room almost too dark to see, but even after the refreshing shower his eyes were too sensitive to the light. He fished some clothes from his bags, dressed, and searched half-heartedly for a pair of sunglasses before realising he didn’t own any and headed downstairs to the reception for some breakfast.

There was something significant about the state of the room, he knew, and as he waited for the lift to take him down to the first floor (much, much too fast for his hungover state) he attempted to scan his memory for any information it might have to offer on what had occurred the night before.

He drew a blank.

It wasn’t until the lift swung to a halt and the doors slid open that he realised what it was.

Sulu had been in their room.

Sulu hadn’t slept over in that girl’s room, despite the fact that the pair had been dating for almost three months.

And for some reason, that fact made Chekov very happy.

It was with a small grin, therefore, that he stepped out of the lift and into the reception. He stumbled over to the bar/restaurant, ignoring both the disapproving and knowing looks people sent him. His haggard appearance gave away his activities from last night, he knew, but he couldn’t help that he was as hungover as hell. Hopefully breakfast would sort that out.

To his surprise, he saw a very familiar figure already at the counter (which just so happened to double as a bar).

As he recognised the man as Scotty, he was hit with some fuzzy memories he knew to be his.

_Telling Scotty he wasn’t human. Singing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ loudly and out of tune. Stumbling home with Sulu late that night, all three of them too drunk to walk straight without the other two’s assistance._

He wondered why Sulu had been there. Had the date gone that badly?

But before he could dwell on it, Scotty had noticed him and was half-heartedly waving him over. “Lad, you look too happy for someone who had that much to drink last night,” the Scotsman informed him dourly. “Look a bit more like someone’s died. More depressed. More frowning. That’s it. A good, hungover expression.”

“I do not need the expression,” Chekov informed him. “I _am_ hungover. Wery much so. I can barely remember vhat happened last night.”

“I have bits of it. I remember us being kicked out for singing old Russian folk-songs.” Chekov remembered that differently, or had that been a separate event? “I remember your young Sulu joining us, and you piled drink upon drink on him until he’d caught up to us.” That sounded familiar, Chekov thought. “I remember almost falling in that river-thing these people have got running through the middle of their city.”

“Terrible place to haff a river,” Chekov agreed. Belatedly, he noticed that Scotty had a half-empty glass of Scotch in front of him. “You are not _still_ drinking, are you?” he asked, appalled.

Scotty grinned at his tone. “Unfortunately no, lad,” he said. “This is my hangover cure. A glass of scotch and a hot Irish coffee – it’ll get rid of that headache you’ve got in a jiff.”

“You are barking mad,” he told the other man, which startled a laugh out of him. Then as the bartender slash waiter stalked over, Chekov turned to him and said, “I vill haff ze greasiest breakfast you’ve got.”

Scotty’s grinned even more at that. “You’ve done this before,” he said almost approvingly, taking a sip of his scotch. “How long have you been drinking for, lad?”

“I do not drink often,” Chekov said. “But I started when I was at uniwersity. Everyone else was drinking, and I felt like joining in. It vas fun… but zis bit vas alvays ze bit I hated.”

“University,” Scotty said musingly. “So you were…?”

“Fifteen,” Chekov said.

“Fifteen! Surely you weren’t legal then?”

“Oh, no, Meester Scott,” Chekov said.  “I vasn’t legal until I was sixteen. But I had friends who did not care how old I vas, and who vere poor students who couldn’t afford to go out to bars. I do not zink zey realised zat house parties veren’t much cheaper, but zere were no bartenders zere to tell me I vas too young. I didn’t do it often, but enough to know zat greasy food is the answer ze next morning.”

Scotty nodded, but as Chekov suspected he didn’t focus on the partying aspect. “So you were legal at sixteen,” he said. “Do you mind if I ask where you’re from?”

“I am from Russia,” Chekov said a little stiffly. “I was born, and spent most of my life, in Moscow.”

“Ach, I wasn’t trying to offend, lad,” Scotty said. “Don’t get your thistles in twist. I wasn’t implying anything. I just wanted to know a bit more about your species. I’ll be honest, I was a bit too drunk to catch the name last night.”

“I am Cartaran,” Chekov said, his voice still revealing his discomfort.

“I’m guessing from your tone you don’t want to talk about it,” Scotty said shrewdly.

Chekov sighed. “No, I do not mind so much,” he said. “It is understandable zat you haff questions. But I am hung over, and zis is not ze place.”

“Fair enough,” Scotty said benignly. “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of chance to talk about it some other time. I have a better conversation topic.”

“Vhat is it?” Pavel asked curiously as his steaming hot breakfast was brought over.

“How about that Mr Sulu of yours,” Scotty said, “and the way he was gazing at you last night when he thought you weren’t looking.”

“Hikaru?” Chekov asked, disbelief colouring his voice. “You vere drunk, Meester Scott. Wery drunk, it seems.” But despite his protests, he felt his heart beat faster a flush spread to his cheeks.

“Believe me, I know what two young fools in love look like, and I was seeing it last night,” Scotty said. “Alcohol had nothing to do with it.”

Chekov blushed harder and turned to his breakfast. _He is seeing things,_ he thought. _Or he is teasing me_. But as he started nibbling on the deliciously non-replicated bacon, a small smile touched his lips.

 _Hope is a nice feeling,_ he thought to himself.

* * *

**  
4\. Spock. **

He never intended to tell Spock.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want the Vulcan to know. It was just that he didn’t want to _tell_ him. He had no reason to; he doubted Spock would care either way.

It was on a mission. That sentence should explain itself, really, as that was where the trouble usually started. The plan had been simple enough. (Oh, weren’t they all?) The group had comprised of the Captain, Doctor McCoy, Spock and Chekov and, like most missions that involved the Captain, this one went badly wrong.

Chekov supposed it was a little unfair to blame the Captain this time; after all, it was highly unlikely that even Captain Kirk had managed to move tectonic plates in order to create this natural disaster. But there was no denying the fact that Kirk had quite the track record for simple missions turning into catastrophes.

And this really was one of the simplest ones. It was a visit to a low-staffed Starbase on Gallatius III, a simple maintenance-slash-check-up mission for a research base that had too few people to take care of these things itself. The Captain was to go over paperwork and ensure procedures were being followed, Doctor McCoy was to perform a medical check-up, and Spock and Chekov were to go over the Starbase systems and technology to ensure everything was up-to-date and working well.

They were onto the life-support machines when it happened. Chekov supposed he should have expected it; everything had been going unusually well so far. He was taking the readings from one of the computers while Spock worked behind him, examining the circuits of one of the many machines responsible for maintaining life on this planet.

A low pitch rumble resonated through the room, followed by a light shaking of the room. Chekov looked up, confused, not yet understanding what was going on. He wondered briefly if he was having a dizzy spell of some sort.

Behind him, Spock pushed himself out from underneath the machine he was working on, and when the building began to shake violently Chekov finally understood. “Earthquake!” he said.

He did what he’d always been taught to do in an earthquake; headed for the doorway. What had once seemed like such a simple thing became a lot harder when the entire room was swaying back and forth, thrusting him this way and that. He stumbled, shoved by the force of the tremors into a machine that resembled a large boiler, with numerous thin pipes extending from its sides. He took a moment to regain his balance before stepping forward again towards the relative safety of the doorway…

The only warning he had was the screeching sound of metal. Then everything went black.

* * *

 

It would have been pleasant for Chekov to be able to say that he woke up back on the _Enterprise_ , sore but alive, with his many injuries on the mend. It would also have been a lie.

When his eyes blinked open, the shaking had stopped. He could see Spock’s face, looking uncharacteristically concerned as he spoke rapidly into his communicator.

“No, no aftershocks so far, Doctor,” Spock said. “But it is likely there will be one, and in such an event I fear that Ensign Chekov could come to irreparable harm-”

He was cut off by what Chekov recognised to be Doctor McCoy’s voice, although he couldn’t make out the words. He seemed to be hearing it from a distance and the world was slightly fuzzy, as though he was watching this scene through one of those old 20th century televisions found in earth museums. ‘ _Should I feel this dizzy’?_ he wondered. ‘ _Is it from the fear, pain, and adrenaline or is it from something else?’_

Wait, pain? He tried to focus on where the pain was – which was everywhere - and what he could move. Why was breathing suddenly so hard?

He craned his head and gasped. Well, he gasped as best he could; gasping was suddenly a lot harder than it had been a few minutes ago. He imagined it probably had something to do with the three-foot pipe that was sticking out of his chest.

“Doctor McCoy, I strongly recommend immediate beam-up,” Spock said. “Regardless of blood-loss, I believe Ensign Chekov’s condition is serious enough to warrant-”He was cut off again by a sharp, almost-frantic voice on the other end.

Well, at least the pole explained the breathing difficulties. And the pain. And the dizziness. And the darkness that was swirling around the edges of his vision, threatening to encompass him again.

Although maybe not the dizziness and blackness, he realised. His knowledge of basic anatomy was far from extensive, but it was enough for him to know that creatures with two lungs could survive and function reasonably well with only one working lung. And he had two oxygen lungs.

“I understand that there are other people badly injured,” Spock said, “but I do not believe you can be certain that Ensign Chekov is not one of those people.”

It could be the pain, he thought. His body was probably trying to pull him back into unconsciousness to spare him from the agony of being awake.

But he’d felt worse, he realised. Everything _hurt_ , but not to the point that he should be passing out.

With great effort, he craned his head again to see the pole emerging from his body. He looked down; it was like he was seeing a wound that had been inflicted upon someone else. Surely it couldn’t be him with a thin metal pipe thrust deep into the centre of his chest.

_The centre…_

“Commander Spock,” Chekov gasped out. It was harder than it should have been. “Please tell Doctor McCoy zat ze pipe has pierced my third lung. My nitrogen one.”

He had two lungs to process oxygen. But he only had one of those.

Spock, for his credit, did not look surprised, or ask him if he was delusional from pain or trauma. He barely even blinked. “Doctor McCoy,” he said, cutting of the Doctor mid-tirade. “Ensign Chekov wishes for me to relay to you that the pipe he has been wounded by has punctured what he referred to as his ‘nitrogen lung’.”

The swear-words that emerged from the communicator were the first words of Doctor McCoy’s that Chekov had been able to make out.

Moments later they were aboard the _Enterprise_ and Chekov was being rushed to an operating theatre.

* * *

 

When he woke up, he was relieved to see that his chest was pipe-free. It was heavily bandaged and still quite sore, but he honestly didn’t care. As long as there was no longer a large metal pole in it, he wouldn’t have cared if he’d grown fur on it.

The second thing he saw was that Sulu was beside him, his chin resting on his chest which was rising and falling slowly as he slept.

The third thing was that there was a hand entwined with his.

He brushed his thumb gently over the smooth skin he found there, and beside him, Sulu began to stir lightly. Instantly he stopped, and Sulu’s deep breathing continued again.

Chekov wriggled in his bed a little, trying to get comfortable while at the same time causing as little pain as possible. When he’d found a satisfactory position, he sunk back into the pillow and closed his eyes, a small smile on his face.

* * *

 

It was a few days before he was released. Doctor McCoy put him through several regen sessions and instructed him to rest up for the next week. Under no condition was he to attempt any strenuous exercise or push his body to extremes, whether that be from lack of food, sleep, or “any other way you might think up to neglect your body”. Chekov might’ve resented being spoken down to like he was a disobedient child if he hadn’t known that the doctor spoke to every crew member like that, and for good reason. The _Enterprise_ got her bad habits from her Captain, and Kirk was about the worst patient there was.

Fortunately, walking around the ship was not an activity put on the “too strenuous” exercise list, so as soon as he felt up to it he wandered down to the science labs, where he found Spock examining a small clump of green metal they’d salvaged from a recent expedition.

He watched and waited, not wanting to interrupt the Vulcan when he was working so intently on something. After a few minutes, Spock held out his hand and said, “Pass me the two-micrometre laser, please, Ensign Chekov.”

Chekov, relieved to have something to do, and to have been accepted into the Vulcan’s presence while he was working, wordlessly handed him the tool. He watched as Spock carved off a portion of the metal and placed it in a terrason dish. Spock crossed to the other side of the room and placed the disk underneath the light of a large machine. Then he turned to Chekov and raised an eyebrow elegantly.

“Can I help you, Ensign Chekov?” he asked.

“I just vanted to say zank you, Commander,” Chekov replied. “For safing my life. If you had not been zere, and had not been so insistent zat ve be beamed back to ze _Enterprise_ , I doubt I vould haff surwived.”

Spock regarded him coolly. “I did the logical thing, Ensign,” he said. “I was relatively uninjured and your wounds appeared to be serious. Furthermore, I propose that it was not my insistence but your quick diagnoses that convinced Doctor McCoy to prioritise your treatment.” He paused, then inclined his head. “Nevertheless, I accept your thanks.”

A short awkward silence followed and, surprisingly, it was Spock that broke it. “If it is not insensitive, Ensign,” he continued, and Chekov’s heart sunk. He knew by now exactly where this was going. He supposed he couldn’t have continued without the questions about his species being addressed. “May I enquire as to the function of your nitrogen-processing lung?”

“Oh,” Chekov said, taken by surprise at the direction of the conversation. “vell, my cells require a balance of nitrogen, oxygen and carbon dioxide to function, unlike humans who only take in oxygen and expel carbon dioxide,” he said.

“Fascinating,” Spock said. “And how precisely does this change the composition of your blood?”

“Um,” Chekov said. “I’m not sure. I only know ze wery basics of my anatomy. If you vanted anyzing more detailed, you vould haff to ask Doctor McCoy.”

Spock looked surprised at this. “Do I have your permission to do so?” he asked. “I know some species are very sensitive about who has information about their biology.”

“Oh,” Chekov says. “No, it is fine. I do not mind.”

“Then thank you, Mr Chekov. I look forward to finding out more about the biology of your species. Was there anything else you wanted?”

Chekov, slightly stunned by this turn of events and how much easier this conversation was compared to the other people he’d told, floundered a little. “Er, no, Zat vas all, Commander.”

“Very well. If you’ll excuse me, Ensign, I should like to pay a visit to Doctor McCoy.”

And with that he swept out of the lab, leaving behind a surprised navigator.

It took Chekov a moment to collect his bearings. That had _not_ been how he’d expected the conversation to go. But then, as he turned and headed towards the door himself, he smiled.

This was why he loved scientists.

* * *

 

**5.** **Captain Kirk**

As Captain, Jim Kirk should have already been aware of Chekov’s species. He certainly should have found out from the records before departure. He definitely should have been informed sooner than six months into the trip.

But Chekov hadn’t known that he didn’t know. And perhaps he should have brought it up as soon as they’d got the mission to travel to Pentera and conduct diplomatic relations with Cartarans, just to check that the Captain was aware of it. But thinks rarely happen the way they should.

Things might have been different if they hadn’t been stretched thin. The alpha shift had been depleted when the Vulcan Colony requested a translation specialist to aid them in their attempts to continue relations with other species. Spock and Uhura had been the obvious choices, with a security detail and Sulu as the pilot of the shuttlecraft. They were to be away for a whole month, and in that month the rest of the _Enterprise_ was to continue as normal.

Unfortunately that meant a whole reordering of shifts. Which meant that Chekov, for the two weeks they were headed towards Pentera, did not see Kirk from the moment he found out where they were headed until the moment they locked onto orbit around the planet.

 _What are the chances?_ He wrote to Sulu, who he could only contact via subspace communication. _Of all the places we could go, what are the chances it would be that one?_

 _It’s Murphy’s Law,_ Sulu replied (a few weeks later; subspace communication was not particularly fast). _You should really talk to Captain Kirk about it though; you don’t want it to cause any problems later on. Send him a message if you don’t see him in person._

But Chekov couldn’t bring himself to bother the Captain with what he was sure was a trivial matter.

And so it wasn’t until they’d actually reached Pentera and the Captain was calling people for the away team that the issue came up. “Dawson, Cupcake and Chekov, I want you down there with me,” he finished after briefing the men and women assembled on the bridge. “Scotty, you have the conn.”

“Keptin Kirk, sir, I need to talk to you about zis assignment-” Chekov tried to say. However, the Captain, in his usual rush, just waved his hand at him as he checked the communication controls over the shoulders of a lieutenant.

“Whatever it is, Chekov, I’m sure it can wait,” Kirk said. “Lieutenant Gearson, please send a message to the Cartarans saying we are preparing to beam down.”

“I don’t zink it can, Sir,” Chekov said, following Kirk like an ignored puppy as the Captain strode over to the other side of the bridge, entering something into the console there. “I do not zink I should accompany you onto ze surface of zis planet.”

“This assignment is non-optional, Mr Chekov,” Kirk said.

“I’m avare of zat, Sir, and I vill go if you order me to, but I really do adwise against you sending me down zere.”

Finally the Captain whirled around to face him, folding his arms stubbornly over his chest. “On what grounds, Mr Chekov?”

“I believe my presence on Cartaran vill be detrimental to ze mission, sir,” Chekov said. He swallowed, before taking a breath and continuing, “As by Caratan law, once I set foot on Pentera soil I am to be executed vithout trial.”

 _That_ got the Captain’s attention.

And it wasn’t just the Captain’s attention. Every person on the bridge was staring at him with gaping mouths, despite the fact that almost every single one of them had a job to do. Chekov flushed bright red, and really hoped that the Captain wouldn’t force him to explain why on the bridge in front of everyone.

“Is this some sort of joke, Mr Chekov?” the Captain asked. His voice sounded a little strangled, and his tone was very disbelieving.

“I vould not joke about zis, Keptin,” Chekov replied honestly.

Kirk nodded. “No, I don’t think you would.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. “Couldn’t you have told me before now?” he demanded.

“Sorry Keptin,” Chekov said. “I believed you already knew.” That wasn’t entirely truthful.

“Well, I didn’t. Scotty, new plan. You’re on the away team with me. Chekov… I can’t give you conn, can I? Not if you might have to make contact with the planet.” He sighed again. “Chekov, you’re assigned to engineering. Dewsbury, you have the conn.”

Chekov didn’t even know who Dewsbury _was_ , but he figured he must be the terrified-looking boy (and Chekov _meant_ boy, because he couldn’t have been any more than three or four years older than him) who stood up at the Captain’s words. Chekov had some sympathy for him; a large part of him was very relieved to have not been given the conn. He knew that Dewsbury – whoever he was – must be about tenth on the list of people who’d normally be left in charge of the _Enterprise_ , given that three of the people above him were halfway across the galaxy, two were on the away mission and one had recently revealed he was a felon on the planet below.

Kirk turned to leave before whirling back around to face Chekov. “You’re not an intergalactic criminal, are you?” he asked suspiciously. “Because if I’m harbouring a wanted fugitive, I’d like to know.” He said it was a forced smile, as though it was a joke, but Chekov heard the genuine worry behind it. This was a considerable thing to hide.

“I swear I’m not, Keptin,” Chekov told him earnestly. “Zis is all wery easy to explain.”

“I really hope so, kid,” was all Kirk muttered before he was leading the away team towards the Transporter Room.

* * *

 

He may have exaggerated the ease with which he could explain the situation.

“So let me get this straight,” Kirk said, pacing before a seated Chekov. “Your parents were born on that planet and eloped, but, because their jobs are different,you as their son are sentenced to death?”

“That is an owersimplification, Keptin,” Chekov said, “but it is essentially correct.

“Wow,” Kirk said. “Your species are nuts.”

“It is not so different to Earth’s history, Keptin,” Chekov said, stung. “Vhere people vere judged differently according to zeir gender or zeir skin colour or-”

Kirk held up his hand, cutting him off. Chekov flushed. “I mean no offense, Keptin.”

“None taken, Chekov. But you said it yourself; that is our _history_. It’s weird for any human in this century to think of such discrimination as _normal_.”

“I do not zink of it as normal, Sir. I vas born on Earth, same as you.”

“Why didn’t you _say_ anything, Chekov? I almost sent you to your death.”

“Because I assumed you knew, Keptin. I vas going to talk to you about it before ve got zere, but our paths didn’t cross.”

“You could have sent me a message,” Kirk told him. “Or come to my quarters. Or had a word with me when I was on duty on the bridge. And if I’m not in those places, then Bones usually knows where to find me.”

Chekov hung his head. “I’m sorry Keptin.”

Kirk looked at him for a moment before sighing. “It’s not really your fault. You’re right; I should have checked your file. I don’t know how I missed that; I always assumed you were human.”

Chekov didn’t say anything, and Kirk sighed again. “Well, it’s good to know you didn’t murder anyone, or anything like that. I guess you can go, Ensign Chekov.”

Chekov got to his feet. “Zank you, Keptin,” he replied, turning towards the door. Before he could leave, Kirk said, “Oh, Chekov?”

“Yes Keptin?” Chekov asked.

“You know what this means, right?” Captain Kirk was wearing a good-natured smile that told Chekov the seriousness was over.

“No?”

“According to the Interspecies Protocol, all Starfleet personnel must obtain authorization from their Captain as well as clearance from their medical officer before initiating an intimate relationship with an alien species. That means you were supposed to ask mine and Bones’ permission before you and Sulu got together.”

Chekov frowned. “Lieutenant Sulu and I are not togezer, Keptin,” Chekov said, his face flushing red. Had the captain really thought they were together, or was he just teasing?

The smile did not fall from Kirk’s face. “Hm. Is that so, Ensign.” It did not appear to be a question. “As you were, then.”

Chekov fled, still blushing.

* * *

**+1. Nyota Uhura**

“Моя гонка человека,” Uhura said slowly.

“Моя гонка человека,” Chekov repeated, emphasising the ‘Моя’.

“Моя гонка человека,” Uhura tried again.

This time Chekov smiled. “That’s perfect,” he said. Uhura grinned in response.

“Thanks again for agreeing to teach me Russian,” she said. “I’ve been learning languages constantly since I was five. It felt weird to stop just because I was assigned to a ship.”

“How many languages do you know?” Chekov asked curiously.

“Twelve Earth ones and seventeen alien ones,” Uhura said. “Plus the dialects of some individual languages.”

Chekov gave a low whistle. “Zat number seems impossibly high,” he said. He’d had enough trouble learning English.

“Once you know how to learn them, it’s quite a bit easier,” Uhura said. “The hardest part is not getting rusty. When there’s no one around to practice with, I change my computer language to whatever I feel I’m worst at. That helps.” She paused and then asked, “How many languages do you know?”

Chekov hesitated. “Three,” he said.

“Russian, English, and…?”

“Cartaronian.”

“Thought so. Can you teach me that once I’ve mastered Russian?”

Chekov was surprised. “Vhat do you mean, you zought so? Vhat did you zink?”

“I thought you might know the language of your homeworld. It’s quite common amongst species who migrate across the galaxy to teach their children their native language.”

“You know?” he asked. “Did Meester Spock tell you?”

“Sweetie, most people know by now. Especially after that mission a few months ago. But yes, I did garner it from Spock during a mind-meld.”

If anyone else had called him ‘sweetie’ Chekov might had been offended. But it seemed natural coming from Uhura. “Most people?”

“Chekov, you look like you’re about as dangerous as a puppy, and then you announced on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ that you were a wanted criminal with the death penalty hanging over your head. Didn’t you think people were going to get curious?”

“I am not so much a _vanted_ criminal,” Chekov muttered.

Uhura just laughed. “That’s really not the point,” she informed him. “Did you not want people to know?”

“I-” Chekov began, before halting. “I am not sure. I suppose I did not before, but now I do not mind so much.”

“How come?”

“How come I did not want people to know, or how come I do not mind now?”

“Either. Both.”

“When people know, zey zink I am less…” he searched for the words, but couldn’t seem to find the exact ones. “From Earth,” he said lamely. “Zey zink of me as an alien because I am not human, even zough I vas born there. Earth is my home, and vhen zey zink of me like zat it is like zey are trying to take that avay from me.”

“And what changed?” Uhura asked curiously.

“I started telling people,” Chekov said. “And it did not seem to matter much.”

Uhura smiled at him. “Of course it didn’t,” she said matter-of-factly. “We’re your friends. And besides, this is Starfleet. You’d have trouble finding a more diverse organisation anywhere in the galaxy. No one cares where you come from or what your species is. We only care that you’re not going to navigate us into the sun.”

Chekov laughed. “I probably should haff giwen eweryone more credit,” he said.

Uhura shrugged. “Maybe not,” she said. “Your concerns were valid, even if they were incorrect. And it was your information, to do with as you pleased. No one here would deny you the right to keep your past a secret.”

“Cекрет” Chekov said. “That’s the Russian word for ‘secret’. And the Cartaronian word is ‘tessla’.”

“Cекрет” Uhura repeated. “And tessla.” She sounded like she was rolling the words around in her mouth, tasting them for the first time.

“That’s right.”

Uhura smiled. “I feel like I should be teaching you a language in return,” she said.

“I’m fine with the three I know,” Chekov said. “Although if you wanted to return the favour, I am looking for some advice.”

“Oh?” Uhura said, curious. “What sort of advice?”

“Advice of a… romantic… nature.”

Uhura grinned widely. “This wouldn’t have anything do with a certain Mr Hikaru Sulu, would it?” she asked teasingly.

Chekov blushed. 


End file.
